Fortunate Scars
by Wind-in-the-Sage
Summary: Sergeant James A. Kinchloe manages to contact an out-of-place Cockney voice in the middle of Germany as his plane is being shot down. But what good will that do him? Kinch's intro to the operation stemming from an explanation for the scar on his forehead. GOLD LONG GENERAL 2018 PBAs.
1. Descent into Germany

"Hey, Kinch," Carter asked one slow summer's day. "Where did you get that scar?" He pointed to his own forehead to indicate what he meant, squinting at the bright sunlight.

Kinch had joined Carter sitting out in the sun that day, watching a game of football being held between Barracks 6 and 14. It was the middle of the day, and, as London hadn't asked for any miracles the last few days, everyone had found something around camp to do. Hogan was catching up on paperwork, LeBeau, having just gotten a fresh, generous shipment of ingredients from the black market between his bargaining and Newkirk's card winnings, was busy perfecting a new tarte tatin recipe, Newkirk was holed up in Barracks 22, dominating a much anticipated poker game, and Carter and Kinch had elected to enjoy the sun while it was around these summer months.

Now Kinch found Carter asking him the sort of nonchalant question curiosity tends to bring about in the absence of anything to do, worry over, or think about.

"Got it when I was shot down."

"You mean before you got to camp?"

"Right before."

A touchdown interrupted them for a moment, cocky jeers and sour complaints playfully exchanged between teams. They listened for a moment before Carter spoke up again.

"I never really thought about that," he mused. "I guess you had to get here somehow, huh? So you were shot down and got that scar and they caught you and brought you to Stalag 13? Or did they take you somewhere else and you escaped, like me?"

"The Germans never caught me. Well, not exactly."

"What? Then how did you end up in here?"

Kinch looked around the compound languidly once more. There was nothing else to do. Why not? "Why don't I tell you the whole story, Carter?"

"Really? Oh boy!" Kinch smiled at Carter's eagerness as he pulled his legs up onto the bench Indian style to face Kinch, big eyes shining intently. "I really want to hear this one!"

Kinch leaned easily back against the barracks wall and obliged, submerging himself in old memories.

~~HH~~

Kinch was gazing peacefully at the night outside the window when the first shells rocked the plane. He was thrown from his seat, and might have fallen into the bomb bay if Fenman hadn't closed the door but a minute ago, the _Shoo Shoo Baby_ * having released its bombs and turned back towards base. He could hear yelling over the now sputtering roar of the four engines, and scrambled back to his seat, grabbing the headset that had slipped off and repositioning it on his head. "Mayday! Mayday!" he heard his commander yelling. "Engine 2 is out! Where's the attack from?" They were too far from base for the pilot's radio to work. He had to make contact with his more hefty equipment in the middle of the plane. Maybe they could get reinforcements from some nearby fighters. Another blow drowned out his CO, and then he saw Johnson, one of their waist gunners, stumble through, headed for the cockpit.

"The tail's been hit!" he yelled. "Banner's gone!"

No. Banner— he couldn't think about that. "Why aren't you in position?" Kinchloe shouted back.

"They're anti-aircraft!"

Oh great. Tail damaged, losing altitude, and anti-aircraft guns right under them. It wasn't a Messer or three that they would be able to take out. They were nearly defenseless, and this flack was heavy. As Johnson opened the door to the bomb bay, he set the frequency to London and sent a message he prayed they wouldn't need. Hopefully their CO could fly them out of this. He was hardly listening to the yelling in his ears except to keep tabs on their damage. He had a message to get through, and most of the instructions were for the other 9— 8 crewmembers in the plane. He risked a quick glance out the small window next to him and could see the smoke lit by the flames from the engine below. He could hear the steady explosions of shells.

Between the plane shaking and pitching and the shaking of his hand, his message was all jumbled. He gritted his teeth and tried to steady himself. London would never get their approximate coordinates with any useful degree of accuracy if he didn't get this just right. He tried several times and failed. If only there were Allies close by to get in contact with by voice. But he couldn't very well broadcast their coordinates and situation to any German in the area.

Another explosion, and the wings tipped. His ears popped as they involuntarily banked and he pressed against the frame of the fuselage. They were going down.

He had to do something. He turned on the short-wave, scanning through the frequencies in sheer, dumb hope. Almost immediately, a different sounding voice came through. English. The connection was so poor, he could hardly hear the words. And they were not following protocol. "'ello? Who's getting shot out of the sky up there? Do you read me?"

He was hesitant to answer. It could be a German trap easily, and he hadn't identified himself.

Ominously, one of the voices on the intercom went silent. They were going down in the middle of Germany. They'd be caught anyway. He made his resolve and replied, "I read you!"

With a response, the voice got faster and louder, realizing they could and had gotten in contact and the plane was in a crisis. "Where are you?"

The coordinates were probably useless now. And whoever it was was close. He needed a landmark. He looked out the window again, but it was dark, and any town nearby was on blackout. Then he was surprised to see the moonlight shining from the ground. It was reflecting off a river. That must be— "The Main River!" he shouted into the headset.

"Right! Main! Anything else—"

The radio went dead. He cursed. And then the door to the bomb bay opened and the air and noise rushed through, disorienting him. With nothing left for him to do and the wind roaring around him, buffeting him, the fear hit him. He barely registered Johnson yelling at him and gesturing this way and that. Johnson grabbed the back of his jacket and then he had something to focus on. He took a breath, and he was being dragged toward the bomb bay. He could see the night opened below them. The bomb bay doors were open. They were bailing. Johnson set him upright on his own two feet, but the erratic rocking of the plane didn't make that easy to maintain. He never did find out whether his teammate threw them both out of the plane or he fell off the catwalk, dropping them both into the sky together, but then it was cold, cold air deafening him and the Gs* were pulling his stomach up into his throat. Then it dropped all the way to his toes when his chute deployed. He blacked out.

* * *

*There was a B-17 called Shoo Shoo Baby, but I have created a fictional crew to man it. Kinch wouldn't have been flying in it, as, from what I can find, the black bombardment groups in WWII flew B-26s, but I couldn't resist naming it that. :)

*Gs is short for g-force. 1 G is the force of gravity on your body. With acceleration, you pull more Gs and feel more heavy. Pull enough Gs and your blood drains down to your feet, causing you to black out. This was a big problem for fighter pilots as planes became faster and could turn more quickly come WWII. The first g-suits, which constrict your legs to prevent all of your blood from pooling there, were created in 1941 and used in combat in 1942. Kinchloe, being in a bomber rather than a fighter, would not have had one.

A/N: Thanks to my mom and grandpa for being my flying/pilot consultants (and childhood aviation storytellers) and clearing up some altitude and pressure issues, though unfortunately radios still perplex me to no end (sorry for any inaccuracies!). Thanks to the group at Urbana airport building a B-17 for giving me some idea of what they look like inside (as well as the movie The Memphis Belle!).


	2. Found

A/N: Thanks to the reviewers! I hope to deliver for the rest of the story!

* * *

Kinchloe opened his eyes. It was night. After a few breaths, he located the pain he was feeling. Mostly it was his head, but now that he thought of it, his arm was smarting something awful, along with... his shoulder? No. His collarbone. He groaned softly, and realized it was the only sound he could hear besides a brisk breeze blowing through leaves and billowing out his parachute silk. He untwisted his good arm from under him, and brought his hand up to examine the wetness he felt on his forehead. He stopped before he got there. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face. It was very dark. Had a thick cloud layer rolled in? It shouldn't. They had checked the weather before they left, as best they could from London, and there was no sign of a storm. Well, weather could be unpredictable. There was a reason he hadn't become a meteorologist. Or a navigator for that matter.

He gingerly fingered the wound on his forehead. It was bleeding all over the place, but it couldn't be too deep, seeing as how his skull was right under the skin. A stronger wind passed over him, and suddenly he was being dragged along by his shoulders. He almost cried out at the sudden pain from the broken bone. He tried desperately to unlatch the chute pack, but with no light to guide him, he was unsuccessful, and was dragged along several more yards before the breeze let his parachute down. His breath was heavy. He hoped no one could hear him. They probably wouldn't see him in this light, giant chute or no.

The breeze died and he paused in trying to remove the chute to listen carefully to the crickets around him and any noise they might be hiding. It was so difficult to hear anything over frogs, crickets, and dry grass being disturbed. Wait. The wind was gone entirely. Dry grass being disturbed?

Kinchloe almost jumped out of his skin at hearing a rough, foreign-sounding voice. He jerked, wrenching his injuries trying to get up even though he knew he couldn't run. He didn't even know where to run. He couldn't see his assailant. And then he was rolled onto his back by his jacket and he registered the words being spoken to him. "It's alright! Calm down. Quiet."

It was English. Accented English, but it didn't sound German. He didn't fight. Besides that, his head had started spinning again and he was worried about losing consciousness once more.

"You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find you people," the voice continued in a whisper as Kinchloe felt him get to work untangling the chute enough to free him. "Main! That's all we had to go on."

"Wait. That was me," Kinchloe said, a little dazed.

"Yeah?"

"Ow! Careful. It's my right arm."

"Right. Sorry." He worked the strap off more carefully, but still couldn't avoid causing pain. To get his mind off it, Kinchloe explained himself.

"The radio conked out before I could say more and we were bailing."

"Aw, that's fine," the voice said. Kinchloe thought he could pick up an apologetic tone through the accent whose origin he was still too dizzy to place. This man probably hadn't anticipated finding, of all men, the radioman they had contacted. "I can understand wanting to bail out fast in a falling, flaming plane. You were just lucky you landed in a field with this parachute blowing around on a windy night, or I never would have seen you."

"Seen me?" Kinchloe responded, confused. "How can you? It's so dark."

"Uh oh," came the quiet voice again. Kinchloe felt him stop with the parachute. "How many fingers?"

"I can't see your hand. It's too dark."

"By any chance," the voice asked, "Do the Americans allow the blind in the air?"

"What?" Kinchloe exclaimed, too loudly.

"Shhh! You want the Gestapo after you? Look, I'm sorry to break it to you, but the moon's almost full and their isn't a cloud in the sky." He got back to work on the parachute, perhaps to avoid Kinchloe's palpable reaction.

"What? You're telling me—" He broke off, trying to comprehend the thought.

"You lost your vision."

"But how—?"

"You fell from the sky. Hit your head on anything?"

The pounding in his head told him the answer, though he didn't remember anything. "I guess. But... is it permanent?"

"I'm no doctor, but I've heard of these things happening before. You hit your head, you'll probably be able to see in a few minutes."

"You'll be right as rain," came a new voice.

Kinchloe started and the first voice cursed. "Why must you always sneak up like that?"

"Can I 'elp it if you blokes don' 'ave ears?"

~~HH~~

With the help of the person belonging to the second voice, they had Kinchloe out in no time. He could hardly get a word in edgewise as the two bickered almost constantly. Somewhere in their ramblings, Kinchloe picked up the fact that the second voice had been looking for downed fliers too, and had happened to see him just as the first had. They mentioned more about others, and about camp, and deadlines, but Kinchloe didn't pick up much. After they had set him on his feet, he had been concentrating hard on keeping upright. He had also been able to determine what kind of accent the first had with the comparison of the second to help. A Russian had found him, and an Englishman had joined. Suddenly, he realized said Englishman was speaking to him.

"Oi! Come on, old fellow. We don't 'ave all night. Gotta get you back to camp."

Kinchloe couldn't help his first reaction. "Who are you calling old fellow? And— camp? What are you talking about?"

"We've got a shipping point in Germany 'ere to get downed fliers back 'ome, and it's time to get you back there."

"What about the rest of my crew?" Kinchloe asked.

"The others are out to find them. That's what Minsk is off to do." Kinchloe hadn't even noticed the other man leave. "We'll do the best we can to get them to camps too. Finding you means the others must be close by, right?"

"Right," Kinchloe said, mind still hazy as he tried to remember where they'd gone down and who had been bailing out when he was.

"Can you walk fine?" asked the Englishman.

Kinchloe tested his feet and legs out. Besides a pain in his thigh, they were in working order. "Yeah. It's just my arm and shoulder. Right side."

"A'right, then I'll lead you from your left."

Kinchloe felt a hand take him by the elbow, and gently begin to lead him. At first, they were quite clumsy. Kinchloe couldn't see the uneven tufts in the ground, and though the Englishman tried, he couldn't very well warn him of and describe each one. After a few too many painful jolts and nearly tripping (almost bringing the Englishman down with him), Kinchloe finally got the hang of it, placing his feet loosely, ready for them to turn in any direction.

Once the Englishman was confident that he wasn't about to hit the ground, he whispered, "Name's Peter Newkirk, Corporal. RAF if you couldn't guess. 'ow about you?"

"Sergeant James Kinchloe. US Army Air Corp, if _you_ couldn't guess."

Kinchloe could hear the smile in his voice. "A'right, then. Turnabout is fair play." The hand on his arm tugged him a bit to the left. "Shrub 'ere."

Kinchloe paid a little more attention to walking carefully, especially when his guide warned him, "Goin' into the forest here. Just pay attention to me guidin' 'and. I'll get you 'round the trees." It took another few minutes of tangled brambles and unseen saplings to get to the clearer interior of the forest. They may have gotten annoyed at each other if they weren't equally bad at getting through. It gave Kinchloe some time to think about this faceless voice leading him. Based on the accent, which wasn't exactly what you'd hear on the BBC, he sounded like an Eastender. An RAF pilot in the middle of Germany. Pilot?

"So are you groundcrew, radio, pilot?"

"I _was_ the latter, old fellow. Everyone's air force back at camp."

"I cannot have that many years on you. Can't you just call me Kinchloe? Maybe Sergeant?"

"'at depends. 'ow old are you?"

Kinchloe almost rolled his eyes. "Thirty three. You?"

"Thirty two. I guess I can't. I cap it at three years. Gonna 'ave to duck 'ere. Low branch."

Kinchloe didn't know how much to duck, so he hazarded a guess, and missed, smacking his already injured and dizzy head into the tree, and promptly falling. He blinked hard to clear the lightheadedness and perhaps abate the headache. It didn't do much. He just pressed his newly freed hand to the side of his head and groaned. He heard the Englishman—Newkirk—pick himself off the ground and ask "Are you alright, old— mate?"

"My name is Kinchloe," he said carefully, trying not to antagonize the headache.

"Well I can't very well call you that, now can I?"

"Why not? Everyone else does." Kinchloe felt the lightest of fingertips on his forehead.

"That really is a nasty cut, that is. 'ere." He began to help him up by the shoulder. "Kinchloe's just too long. Too awkward."

Kinchloe finally regained his feet. Where's that tree? he thought. He felt for it, and Newkirk helped him lean against it. "It's two syllables."

There was a pause. "Point taken." The merry-go-round his head was on was starting to slow down. "I'm just gonna call you 'mate'. 'ow 'bout that?"

Kinchloe wasn't going to put up any more argument. "Sure."

"A'right, mate," the voice said happily. "Sorry about that fall. Now let's get to camp. We're goin' slow, and I gotta be back before roll call."

"Roll call?"

"I'll explain. Come on."


	3. The Crazier Descent

Half an hour later, Newkirk stopped them. At first, Kinchloe thought the Englishman was just calling a break. Fifteen minutes ago, the pain in his thigh had become too much to walk on his own, and Newkirk had been supporting him. For the first while, Newkirk had told him a fantastic story about an operation in a prisoner of war camp, headed by a Colonel Hogan, that shipped escaped prisoners and downed fliers to London. When Kinchloe had inquired further, he had neatly skipped around the details, but that could have been that they were getting too tired to speak much. Or they needed to be quiet, for now Newkirk was whispering in his ear. "We're gettin' close. Can you see anythin' yet?"

Kinchloe blinked and waved a hand in front of his face, testing carefully. "No," he whispered back, disappointed.

Newkirk made a less-than-encouraging noise, and then continued. "Well, 'ere's the plan. To get into the tunnel, we'll 'ave to avoid the searchlight. The tunnel entrance is a fake stump that opens up. We can run up and hide behind that, and I'll open it up and send you down once the light 'as passed. You get to the bottom of the ladder and take one step back so I can come down after ya on the next pass. Got that?"

"I think. Can you see the searchlights now?"

"Yeah, mate."

Kinchloe sighed. "I really am blind."

"Don't worry about that just now," Newkirk said with a hand on his shoulder. "You still have time to recover it. We don't 'ave time 'owever, to wait around twiddling our thumbs 'ere anymore. You ready?"

"Ready," Kinchloe said, a little chastised.

Newkirk seemed to think nothing of it. "A'right." He shifted beside the American and gripped his arm, ready to steer him quickly and forcefully if need be.

"Wait." Kinchloe had thought of something. "What if it doesn't work?"

"Easy. We surrender, the Germans catch us, and the Colonel talks us out of it."

That was their back up plan? Getting caught? He made it sound almost like a good thing.

"'Course, we don't want to. It'll be 'ard to explain me outfit."

"What?"

"Now!"

All thought was erased from Kinchoe's mind as the pain in his leg flared up and branches whipped by his face and bad arm. It was all he could do to keep quiet and keep up. He managed not to stumble, and then he was being dragged down and pushed against something. It must be the stump. He felt breath on his ear. "Pull your leg in. The other one! Now stay still."

Kinchloe was breathing quickly, praying they wouldn't be seen as he tried to stay as still as possible. He tried to be ready, as he had no idea himself when the light would pass next. He paid close attention to the hand still on his arm, and the one that had slipped around his shoulder, ready to move him. He almost jumped when he felt a sudden increase in pressure, but realized it was just Newkirk pushing himself up to get a look over the stump. "Now, mate!"

Newkirk pulled Kinchloe up and pushed him around the stump. Kinchloe heard hinges faintly, and then Newkirk was lifting his leg, trying to place his foot on the ladder. "Over the top, 'ere. Grab the first rung." Once he found his balance and three points on the ladder, he was able to allow muscle memory to get him down. He heard the faint sound of the lid closing above him, then focused on getting down the ladder one-handed.

With a few close calls and what would result in some sore muscles to add to the wrenched ones tomorrow, he finally felt earth replace wood under his foot. He took a deep breath and got onto firm ground, taking a generous step back to give Newkirk room when he came down. He didn't turn left or right. He daren't even raise his arms from his sides. As far as he knew, the tunnel out of here could be down by his feet, and from what he knew about tunnels out of prison camps, it probably was. The blindness still got on his nerves. The world didn't even exist beyond his fingertips save for the cold, damp scent of soil and rock. And...oil?

And then he heard a voice, American, coupled with soft footsteps, coming from some distance away. It startled him, and then it was talking so fast, he couldn't get a word in.

"Olsen's already out, we're just waiting for LeBeau to make it back before we get Minsk's catch out there. Roll call's soon. I want you upstairs for a serious distraction if LeBeau doesn't make it in on... time..."

Kinchloe did his best to turn to the voice and give the appearance of looking at him. This man sounded used to giving orders. An officer? "Sergeant Kinchloe, US Army Air Force," he introduced himself.

"Where's Newkirk?"

Kinchloe pointed up just as the sound of barking echoed down. The distant sound of yelling in German and the much closer sounds of "Kamerad!" grated on Kinchloe's nerves. Those were the sounds he had been dreading since he first heard they were doing a bombing run deep into Germany. What calmed him was the sound of the American's voice and its lack of hysteria. He sounded more... annoyed.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He was going to follow me down."

"And it sounds like Bruno caught him. Come with me."

Was Bruno one of the guards? Just the name sounded cruel. And then the slight movement of air that rushed to fill the American's previous position caught Kinchloe's attention. "Wait! I can't see."

"It's brighter up here. Hurry," said the voice ahead of him.

"No, I lost my vision when I bailed."

"What?" The man cursed softly, letting Kinchloe know that he did in fact understand, before the footsteps came back. A hand on his wrist was suddenly guiding him down a long, tall passage, and he gave over his navigation to trust, hoping he wouldn't have to crawl or get slammed into any walls like Newkirk might do.

"Wait, what about Newkirk?"

"I'll handle it. He'll be fine. The question is whether LeBeau will be. Wilson, back to barracks. Minsk, I need you up now. Newkirk's been caught. We're using these two to cover."

"Kinchloe!" called a familiar voice in surprise.

He smiled. "Durant, is that you?"

"I don't look that bad, do I?"

"Niceties later," said the American, back to commanding. There was a complicated, squeaky, wooden sound. "Everyone up. Now."

"I don't know if I can manage another ladder," Kinchloe announced, not knowing whom he was addressing.

"That's right, his arm's injured," came the Russian voice of earlier. It was strange to hear it again in such a different context only half an hour later.

"Then help him. I need the numbers," said the American from slightly above him. The ladder creaked under use as Kinchloe counted two sets of feet climb it. Then warm hands were placing his hands on the rungs and he began his ascent. He heard voices above saying something about guards and dogs and bed. Oh, a bed sounded so good right now. He made it up two steps before Minsk had to push him from behind. A moment later, he felt someone grabbing for his shoulder from above.

"C'mon," urged Durant. Kinchloe allowed himself to be pulled up till he was gripping something vertical.

"Foot up," came Minsk's voice from below. Kinchloe lifted his foot, and, finding it hard to balance with no idea where the ground was, had to be caught by Durant and dragged over top of a low, horizontal bar before he felt anything beneath his feet.

"Hoffman?" That was the American again.

"Guards coming," reported Hoffman.

"Get them in the bunks," he ordered someone. "And Bricklin, take Olsen's bunk. His arm is injured."

"Yes, sir," replied another voice.

He was definitely an officer. Again, the squeaking wood noise. Then Kinchloe was steered through a room, presumably a barracks, and told to lay down as the American was asking the first man, "What about Newkirk?"

"Nothing serious."

"Any sign of LeBeau?"

"No."

"Alright, good work."

Kinchloe was put in a warm bed, turned on his side—luckily the right one—and had a blanket draped over him. He heard a slight clamor as footsteps and rustling blankets told him everyone was getting into their bunks. Then suddenly, everything inside was quiet and all that could be heard was a moment of the muffled caterwaul outside before a door opened and let in the noise and cold air. Loud German voices made him freeze.

In other circumstances, he might have questioned if he really _had_ just been smuggled into a prisoner of war camp, but the shouts of "Raus! Line up!" left no doubt in his mind. The shock of the last hour and the fear of what was to come was beginning to blur his mind, so he never caught how the barracks was empty of guards a minute later without ever hearing anyone line up. He just remembered a sleepy, protesting, convincing American voice, displeased German voices, and even more barking outside. Then, there were footsteps, the door opening to the wind, and more yelling, before the barracks was suddenly quiet. Moments later, Hoffman's voice brought him back.

"Clear."

There was a shuffling in the barracks. Obviously, no one was asleep. "What's happening, Hoffman?" asked a British voice. Apparently, Hoffman was the lookout. Kinchloe hadn't even heard him sneak back to the door.

"The kommandant is scolding Newkirk. The Colonel's talking to him. Guards are getting the dogs in order."

He didn't have anything more to say, and there were some murmurs in the barracks, but then Kinchloe heard someone land on the wooden floor and his blanket was being pulled off. "Are you alright?" asked Durant.

"Yeah, how are our new fliers?" asked a voice above him.

"Fine," Kinchloe said. "I just... lost my vision. It should be temporary."

Durant's reply was cut short by Hoffman. "They're headed into the kommandantur." A moment later, the dogs broke out in another frenzy of barking.

"What's that?" Kinchloe asked, trying to get some idea of the safety of their current position. Hoffman answered him.

"That would be the diversion. Good old LeBeau."

"What? Are they okay?"

"Yeah they'll be fine. Maybe some cooler time. Hogan usually doesn't let it go beyond that."

He got affirmations all around the barracks at that. They listened a little longer in silence to the barking and shouting.

"Are you sure?" Kinchloe asked.

"Yeah."

After a moment, Durant spoke quietly to him. "So what happened? All I could do was get out of the nose and to the bombay once I saw we were headed down."

"I tried to get in contact with London, but couldn't. Then I heard someone over the short wave asking who was being shot down. I think it was the man that just got caught outside. I told him where we were, and then bailed out with Johnson. I don't know where he went, though. I passed out halfway to the ground. But he told me Banner was gone. That's why we had such trouble. Our tail was gone."

"Banner," he whispered. He was silent for a moment, out of respect. Then he asked, "Are you okay at least? Besides that head wound?"

"Yeah. I can't see, and I think my arm's broken, but otherwise, yeah. You?"

"Perfectly fine." He didn't sound overly happy at the thought, but Kinchloe was glad.

In the lull, through the alarming sounds outside and the small conversation in the barracks, Kinchloe heard another noise. "Wait. Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked both Durant and Hoffman.

"Listen."

The knocking didn't get any louder, but the barracks quieted. "Let him in," someone said. Two whacks and the squeaky noise announced what Kinchloe now assumed was the tunnel being opened. He heard a muffled stream of words in yet another accent before the tunnel was closed again without anyone coming up.

"That'd be LeBeau."

There was a very quiet cheer throughout the barracks. Kinchloe guessed being quiet was something one got good at in this sort of place.

"The Colonel's checking the window," said Hoffman. "Who's going out for a smoke?"

A smoke? thought Kinchloe.

"I will," came a new voice.

"Thanks, Cochran," said someone else.

"Someone got a light?" he asked.

Several people complied, and then the door opened and closed again.

A few seconds later, Hoffman announced, "He got the message. And luck is with us tonight."

Kinchloe only had a moment to think what a misnomer that seemed to him before the door opened. He heard high fives and congratulations. Apparently no one had seen Cochran outside of the barracks. Someone shushed them immediately. It was Minsk.

"Shh. All we have to do is keep the guards from checking in here. No more noise. Everyone to bed."

There was a murmur of reluctant agreement all around. As people got back into their bunks, Kinchloe heard Minsk, much closer.

"As soon as LeBeau gets up here, you're going down." He felt a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. What was your name again?"

"Kinchloe."

"Right. Kinchloe, we'll get Wilson to see you once things have quieted down. Durant, you're standing in for Olsen up here."

"Why can't I go down too?" he protested. "Wouldn't it be easier to hide me if I were out of sight?"

"Our barracks guard looks at numbers, not faces. And it's easier to smuggle food for one person out of the mess hall than two."

The tunnel opened again.

"That's your cue," said Minsk. "Hey, Hoffman. Is it clear?"

"Yeah. The Colonel must be having trouble getting Newkirk out. But you better be quick, before they decide to really check the barracks."

"That won't be a problem," said a French accent. "I let a mouse loose by the dogs. A few of them got out. They won't be checking the barracks until roll call."

"Good. Let's get you up," said Minsk, helping Kinchloe to stand.

Through the lightheadedness, Kinchloe asked, "Another ladder?"

"Yes. But not so fast this time," Minsk reassured him. It didn't help much. The conversation continued as Kinchloe was ushered across the room and back down the ladder.

"Is this our three hundredth escapee?" the Frenchman asked.

"Three hundred and first," corrected Minsk. "Sergeant Kinchloe."

"Nice to meet you. I'm LeBeau." Kinchloe got the vague sense he was holding out his hand. Minsk came to his rescue.

"He can't see. Must have hit his head. Help me get him down the ladder?"

"Oui." Then he addressed Kinchloe again. "I'm sorry about that, mon ami. Hopefully you'll be able to see soon."

"Hopefully. I'm sorry about your Englishman."

"What Englishman? Newkirk?"

"He got caught outside the wire bringing him in," Minsk informed LeBeau. "Colonel's trying to get him out of it now."

"That's what all the fuss was," LeBeau said to himself.

"I'm sorry," Kinchloe apologized. He didn't know what the punishment might be, but his imagination was not furnishing him with many pleasant options.

"Don't be. That—" Kinchloe's French didn't have much, but it didn't need much to know that was not a compliment. "—brought it on himself. I'm only sorry we couldn't find more of your crew."

"Did you bring anyone in?" asked Minsk.

LeBeau must have shaken his head. "Couldn't find a one."

Kinchloe let out a sigh that could possibly be attributed to his finally reaching the ground at the bottom of the ladder.

"I'll get him set up," LeBeau offered. "You go back up."

"Alright, but be quick," Minsk's voice cautioned.

The tunnel entrance closed again, and Kinchloe felt a hand take his elbow and another press into his back to guide him. The hands were so low, though. How short was this man? Kinchloe tactfully decided not to mention it.

"How big was your crew?" LeBeau asked as he had Kinchloe sit on something that felt like a cot.

"Ten. We were in a B-17."

"Ten? And we only found two of you? That's a new low. Did you see how many bailed out?"

"I only saw two people bail out before me."

"Hmmm. We will keep an eye out for the others. Here. Let me wash that forehead off."

That was all the warning Kinchloe had before a shockingly cold washcloth was dabbed against his face. He jerked involuntarily.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. It's cold."

"Ah, sorry. We may have plumbing down here, but no water heater. I'll be careful."

Kinchloe wasn't sure if that was a joke, but didn't mention it. The washcloth returned, and he was more ready for it. LeBeau finished his job quickly, and the cool water felt good on the cut. Kinchloe closed his eyes and waited. "Now you'll have to wait here. It may be awhile, especially if Klink makes a speech at roll call. He probably will after Newkirk got caught. We'll get Wilson down right afterwards, though. And don't worry about anyone in the tunnels. If they are down here, you can trust them."

"Okay."

"You don't say much, do you?"

Kinchloe thought that was a funny question. "Not usually."

"Most people ask all sorts of questions coming in here. You should have more since you can't see, but you don't."

"I'm still curious."

"Well we can't tell you everything—we are trying to keep this a secret—but I can fill you in more later so you know what's going on."

"Thanks."

"LeBeau!" Minsk hissed.

Kinchloe thought he just caught a murmured "worrywart" before LeBeau bid him goodbye and the ladder closed one more time. Then it was silent.

It was very silent. Since this was a dirt, not a rock tunnel, there was no sound of water dripping. No echoes. He wasn't even sure he could hear anything in the barracks above. It could also be that it was quiet up there, of course. Kinchloe determined how big the cot was, and gently laid down. Then he carefully felt out where the breaks were while he thought of what all had happened.

He was under a prisoner of war camp because he'd been shot down in Germany and the prisoners called him on a radio and came out to find him. They found Durant too, but no one else, and Durant was upstairs replacing one of the prisoners who was presumably out. His escort had been caught outside the wire by one Bruno. He hoped he was okay. He liked the Englishman, even if he wasn't the most gentle when it came to navigating the woods. If he was from London, that would make sense. He was probably better in a cityscape. And this mysterious Colonel Hogan, whom he thought he may have met, was trying to get Newkirk out of punishment. Now he was waiting in a spacious escape tunnel for Wilson, whom he assumed to be a medic. And Newkirk had said they would be getting him home. He hoped that was true.

The cot felt wonderful, and he drifted between worrying for his crew and Newkirk, wondering if he would be able to see again, and sleeping.

* * *

A/N: And unfortunately, that's the last we'll see of Newkirk for some time. Hope everyone (every American) had a good Thanksgiving!


	4. Taking Care of Business

Many apologies for taking so long to update. The device with my stories on it was left two hours away and it's been two weeks till I could get it back. The rest of the story will be updated much more frequently, I promise!

* * *

Kinchloe wasn't sure how long it had been before he felt a hand patting his cheek. He woke with a start and opened his eyes, momentarily confused at the darkness.

"Shh. It's okay. You're safe. I just need you awake to examine you."

"What?"

"Sergeant Wilson, medic. You're Kinchloe?" The voice was firm and soft. The combination was reassuring.

"Yeah."

"And I hear you can't see."

"Nope."

"Alright. We'll get to that. First, where does it hurt?"

This man could get down to business. "Well, my head hurts. And I think I broke my collarbone and arm. Pulled a muscle in my leg too."

"Hm. You're lucky."

"Lucky?"

"Yeah. You should see some of the guys they bring in. You've got nothing permanent. Let's check these breaks first. I'm going to need you to sit up and take your shirt off."

As he did so, Kinchloe asked, "You mean I'll be able to see again?"

"If you just lost your vision hitting your head—and it looks like that's what you did—it should be back real soon."

This was the medic speaking. And he sounded confident. Kinchloe felt better. Together, they slowly worked his shirt off without moving his broken arm.

Wilson spent some time poking around and asking what hurt. He found the painful spots pretty quickly. Soon enough, he had his diagnosis. "Two breaks, don't even need set. One sling should take care of both. I'm also going to wrap your arm against your torso so it doesn't swing out and move the collarbone any."

"Thanks."

"It's what we do here."

While they were getting his shirt back on and getting his arm all wrapped up in a sling, Kinchloe heard the ladder and voices.

"No beans." That first voice was a very familiar-sounding American.

"What?"

"No beans. It means I couldn't get him out. And Klink wants to know where his outfit came from."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I could get him one if he wanted." With a chuckle, this apparently passed as an explanation.

"How many days, then?"

"Thirty. And I intend to shorten that yet. We need him for our next mission."

"We have a next mission?"

"Yeah, hold on. Wilson? How's your patient doing?"

"Looking good," the medic said. "Just a sling and some time and rest for his vision to come back."

"Good."

Kinchloe asked, "Newkirk's in solitary?"

"Oui." The Frenchman was down here. What was his name again?

"And I don't intend it to stay that way," said the American. He placed the voice. That must be the Colonel. "Wouldn't have happened if we got to work on Bruno."

"You mean, got him to cover for you?" Kinchloe asked. It seemed they were all unnecessarily vague around here.

"Yeah. LeBeau's working on finding his favorite food but we haven't come up with anything to trump his hatred of Newkirk just yet." That did not help Kinchloe's feelings of worry or guilt. But, favorite food?

"What?" he said.

"If you ask me, it's because he doesn't trust Newkirk," analyzed Colonel Hogan.

Kinchloe hadn't realized the Russian was down here until a dry voice said, "I wonder why?"

"You tell me," Hogan replied in kind.

Then LeBeau was speaking to him. "Do you have any ideas? I've tried ham bones, chicken carcasses—"

"You tried what?"

"What do you mean? All of the other dogs like it. Too much. They won't get off of me. But not Bruno."

"Wait." Kinchloe took this in. "Bruno's a dog?"

There was a confused pause. "Yes. What did you think?"

"I thought he was a guard. You said Bruno caught Newkirk."

Then they started laughing. It made Kinchloe feel a little better. They were taking things pretty lightly.

"He did," stated Minsk. "Bruno is the _dog_ that hates Newkirk. Kohler is the _guard_ that hates him."

"Not that the other guards much like him," qualified Hogan.

"Again, I wonder why," mumbled LeBeau.

Kinchloe was confused. "Why?"

LeBeau informed him, "He was here before the rest of us. Tell me, if you were a prison guard, would you like your gun handed to you by one of the prisoners?"

"Or your cigarettes missing?"

"Or your trousers—"

"Hey, hey, quiet down," ordered the Colonel. "We've got to get down to business. You were on a bombing raid, sergeant?"

"Yes. That's right," Kinchloe confirmed.

"Get your target?"

"Yeah."

"Did it happen to be a tank factory some thirty miles east of here?"

Kinchloe was about to respond positively, but the impossibility of the situation struck him. "How do you know?"

"Nevermind," he said as the others cheered. "Glad you got it. But I do want to extend my apologies."

"Apologies? What could you be sorry for?"

There was a short silence. Minsk said, "We asked London to bomb that factory."

"We're sort of the reason you're here," said LeBeau.

Kinchloe was silent for a moment. "It's not your fault. London has to get their coordinates from somewhere. It just happened to be you...somehow. And it wasn't you that took us out anyway. It was those AA. We didn't even know they'd be there. We were too low altitude, trying to see—"

"What? Anti-aircraft?"

"Around here?"

"No one told us!"

"That must be our next mission," finished LeBeau.

"Right. Can you give us a more exact location?" Hogan asked Kinchloe, then addressed the others. "Get the radio set running. Ask the Underground about the other crew members too."

Kinchloe worked with the Colonel to get the exact location, combining their knowledge of the area to guess where the guns were while answering Wilson's questions. By the time they had settled on something Hogan found satisfactory, Wilson was done, leaving instructions to drink plenty and assurances that he'd be back later to check on him, and Minsk and LeBeau had come back from the radio.

"Sounds like the Germans picked up five new flyers," Minsk said. "As for us, it was murder finding any of you, but we got two."

"That leaves three unaccounted for," said Hogan. "We'll look into it."

"Two unaccounted for," Kinchloe corrected. "We lost our tail gunner before we went down."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Though Kinchloe couldn't see anyone's faces, he could feel the atmosphere grow more somber. "We'll see about those other two."

"Oui."

"We will."

The Colonel got them back on track. "I'll send the AA location to the Underground in case they find the time to take it out. Back to barracks, before Schultz misses us. We'll leave you, Sergeant, to get that time and rest Wilson was talking about."

Kinchloe nodded and heard scuffling feet as everyone went about their duties.

~~HH~~

It wasn't fifteen minutes until LeBeau came back. He announced himself. "Kinchloe?"

Kinchloe pulled himself out of his fuzzy daydream. "LeBeau?" he asked.

The Frenchman sounded pleased. "Oui. I brought you something." At that moment the scent hit his nose. Oh, food. "I knew you'd like it." He must have seen the smile spreading across his face.

"You bet I would."

"Here," he said. Kinchloe felt a tin plate set on his lap and a fork slipped into his hand. "All the food is right in the middle."

Feeling the plate on his legs, he was able to judge with decent accuracy where to aim his fork. He tried to take it slow, and the difficulty of getting the food to his mouth helped, but all he wanted was to inhale it. Never had potatoes and carrots tasted so good.

"Sorry I couldn't get more. Klink put a temporary guard on the mess hall. It's been harder to steal food." Kinchloe made a dismissive noise and waved his fork, not stopping his eating for a moment but clearly saying he didn't mind in the slightest. LeBeau gave him some water, and when he was nearly finished, helped him find the last few chunks of carrot. Kinchloe briefly hoped it wouldn't always have to be that way.

He finished, and sighed in satisfaction. "Thanks. That was amazing."

"That was nothing. You should stick around and try a real meal of mine. Then maybe I will have someone who actually appreciates my cooking." Kinchloe thought he heard him mumble something in French about tasteless English. Then he realized something.

"Why are you still down here? I thought you didn't want the guard to miss you?"

"Oh, I made sure I said hi to Shultz and gave him some food. He won't be worried. Unless he wants more and tries to find me."

"Then what?"

"Someone will probably tell him I'm on the other side of camp and get me from down here."

Hm. They made it sound so easy. "So this operation really works, huh?"

"Beautifully. Well, perhaps not beautifully. German military interior decoration is rather dull, but it works well."

"Except when you get caught."

"Caught? Oh. Newkirk." Kinchloe really wasn't one to pry in any circumstances, but he had liked the Englishman and wanted to know what would happen to him. "Don't worry about him. He will be out in no time. I bet you can see him by tonight. Hopefully we can find your other crewmembers by tonight too."

"Really? Is that possible?"

"We will try, mon ami. In the meantime, I must get back upstairs. Get better soon."

"Thanks." And with that, he was gone.

Kinchloe was left most of the rest of the day to think about his crewmembers in captivity, those on the plane and those in this camp. His imagination gave him more than enough food for thought. He wished he hadn't heard quite so many stories about the Gestapo. He was grateful for the respite given him when Wilson came to check on him later, and they got to talking about what the camp was like. Wilson described the camp to him and several of the guards and prisoners in it. He didn't know much about the operation, but he had some pretty amusing stories. Kinchloe appreciated them. He hung onto them, retelling them to himself to stave off his fears after Wilson left. LeBeau came with lunch—he liked the spunk of the Frenchman—and a few hours later the Russian came to visit.

"Good news, soldier," he said, right off the bat.

"What's that?"

"The Underground picked up one of your crew members."

"Who was it?"

"Didn't mention a name, but he was the pilot."

Kinchloe breathed a sigh of relief. Bailey was okay. Was he? "He wasn't hurt?"

"Nope. They're getting him off to London right now. He knows where you and the rest of your crew ended up."

"Good." Except for one. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me for relating what I heard. Thank me for the clothes I'm going to make you to get out of here. They're going to be a challenge. If you get seen, the clothes have to tell the story themselves or else you're just going to get caught as an escaped prisoner. Then when they have no record of you in the camps, they'll wonder how you got papers and clothes if you're just a downed flier." Kinchloe swallowed. "My advice? Don't get caught. Or seen."

 _If I can see to make it out of Germany,_ Kinchloe thought. "Thanks. What about my last crew member?"

"Colonel says we're doing our last sweep of the area tonight. We haven't heard anything about the Germans getting him, so he must still be out there." Kinchloe heard the unspoken "alive or dead" on the end of the sentence clearly. He nodded.

"We're also shipping out your crewmember—Durant?—tonight."

"Really?" He was glad Durant was going back, but he also liked having something familiar here in this strange lightless world he'd landed in.

"Da. Going out during evening roll call. I'm giving him the same advice I gave you. But don't worry. We have a second escape route to be traveled with the least amount of time in the open. It just takes a lot longer."

"Oh."

"I have to get back to the radio. We're preparing that route right now with our Underground contacts. Good luck with your recovery." Minsk left quickly.

Back to the radio? It sounded so good. Oh, he'd love to get his hands on some equipment.


	5. Temporary Farewells

That evening, Durant left. Minsk came down with him to say goodbye to Kinchloe just before roll call. Kinchloe was busy tapping out coordinates with his finger when he heard the ladder. He waited for someone to speak.

Durant's voice came from the approximate location of the ladder. "Hey, Kinchloe."

"Hey."

The footsteps stopped in front of him.

"You feeling okay?"

"Better."

"Good." He exhaled. "Looks like I'm headed out."

"Right. And I'll be following soon."

"If you get your sight back."

"Yep."

"I'll be praying for you."

Kinchloe nodded. "Thanks, Durant. Hey, if you can get a letter through once you're back?" he asked.

Minsk, not-very-subtlely listening, caught him quickly. "Hey. No loose talk. Nothing about this operation at all. Be as vague as you have to. This is top secret."

By now they were both used to his over-cautious attitude, though he did have justification for it. "Alright, _serzhant_ ," reassured Durant.

"Good. I'm going upstairs. Be up in two minutes." It was difficult to hear his footsteps on the packed dirt floor.

"I'll tell your mama," Durant said.

"Do you know my address?" asked Kinchloe.

"'Course. I've seen you writing letters."

That's right. He had a head for numbers. That's why he was their navigator. "Thanks."

"Sure thing. I'll see you soon, okay? Hopefully in London before we get reassigned."

"Yeah." Kinchloe paused, thinking. With their plane and half their crew out of action, they probably would be reassigned, and he didn't know where that would put him or the rest of the crew. But that was assuming they made it out of Germany. "Don't— don't get caught."

"No intention. Don't worry about me. You've got enough here to worry about. If I don't see you sooner, I'll visit your place after the war, okay?"

"Alright."

"Godspeed, Kinchloe. Pleasure flying with you." Durant shook his hand and patted him on the shoulder.

"Godspeed."

Soon, the silent dark grew boring. He tried to listen for a sign of what was happening above, but nothing filtered down to the tunnels very well. It was like the world didn't exist. He couldn't see it. He couldn't hear it. He didn't have to be bothered by it. He settled into a familiar, if not quite as comfortable as usual, haziness. Usually this fog only happened in his head. Now it was around him.

~~HH~~

It wasn't long before lights out came, and with it, three people from the barracks. Or at least three voices he could identify. Hogan, LeBeau, and Minsk were down here, in some order.

"How are you doing, sergeant?" the colonel asked him.

"Fine, sir."

He heard LeBeau in the background. "Our blacks don't need to be tailored!"

"But that thread could get caught!" Minsk argued.

"Good," replied Hogan, ignoring the other two. "We're making a search. I'm afraid it's the last one. If we don't find your crewmember tonight, we'll just have to assume the worst. Wish us luck."

Kinchloe understood the need to save energy and resources, though it made him feel sick to his stomach, which likely caused his next words to come out rather sarcastically. "All the luck I've got," he said.

"Hm. Sounds like Newkirk," LeBeau mused.

"Let's get going. We don't have too much time for the space we're covering," Minsk reminded.

"We're going, we're going," complained LeBeau lightly.

In another minute, they had left down the passage.

Kinchloe lay down and stretched his leg slightly, judging how much better it had gotten. It was surprisingly well, as if his body were making up for its lack in the eye-healing department by stepping it up in the muscle-healing department. He sighed quietly and eventually fell asleep.

~~HH~~

Later that night—he wasn't sure how long it had been—Kinchloe woke to the sound of voices. He rolled himself up so he was sitting on his cot, just as the voices reached him.

"Guess who we found!"

He was a little unprepared to guess, and in any case, it came out too fast for him to have to guess.

"Hey, Kinchloe." It was Johnson, voice rough but glad. Thank the Lord, they found him.

"Johnson! Are you alright?"

"Fine. Just hungry. And scared out of my wits." The prisoners, though Kinch hardly felt that term was applicable, were busy doing he-wasn't-sure-what around him, but it sounded as if they had a lot more down here than a radio. He felt a weight drop onto the cot next to him. "Are you alright? And what are you doing here? What is this place doing here?"

"Well," Kinchloe smiled. "It is a long story."

"I've got all the time these people will give me. I guess they want me out as soon as possible. What a welcome, huh?"

"They got Durant out quick—you just missed him—but they've been having trouble getting rid of me."

"Oui," LeBeau said. "We would have gotten him out yesterday if we could. We need to get everyone we can back on the right side of the enemy lines. Here's some water."

Kinchloe heard sloshing as Johnson took a drink and returned the container, thanking LeBeau.

"So why haven't you gotten out of this miraculous little hole?"

"The big problem's my sight. I lost it when I bailed. Their medic says it should be back soon, and then I'll be—"

"Wait— You can't see?" Kinchloe shook his head. "I'm sorry about that."

"Not much use for it in this hole anyway, right?"

"Right... It'll come back?"

"That's the idea."

"Well good luck. I'm glad to see you're okay. Mostly." He paused, and Kinchloe could feel the apprehension. His volume dropped, and he hesitantly asked, "Who else...?"

Kinchloe tallied in his head. "So... we're all accounted for now. Banner was before we went down. Durant and I, and now you, were picked up by this operation. Some other spies found Bailey. He's okay. He's heading back to London now. The rest of them were captured. I don't know if they were hurt." He left unsaid whether they might have been hurt before or after their capture.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably as they had a sort of informal moment of silence, or perhaps it was just letting the truth sink in. Kinchloe heard the squeak of the ladder and someone ascending it. Johnson's voice was weary when he spoke again.

"Half isn't too bad for being shot down over Germany."

Kinchloe hummed in agreement. "Thanks for helping me bail."

"Yeah," Johnson said absently. It wasn't anything very special. Just the sort of thing you did for your crewmates.

They ran out of things to say just as Minsk came over. It sounded like he was the last one down here. "Time to get you up top. We're one man short if we get a bed check."

"Bed check? I'm going to be in the barracks?"

Kinchloe put his hand approximately on Johnson's knee. "They've got it. Don't worry."

"...Okay. If you say so."

"Come on," urged Minsk. "You're sleeping upstairs. Hopefully you'll look a little less tired when roll call comes around."

Johnson, who was getting off the cot sat back down in surprise. "Roll call? Are you sure, Kinchloe?"

He nodded toward Johnson's voice. "It worked yesterday."

"And for the last several months," Minsk added. "Are you coming or not?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. I'm coming." He hesitated, then got off the bed. "I'm coming."

"Good. We'll brief you in the morning. We'll be up before the guards."

"Yeah, okay. Hey, see you, Kinchloe. Looks like I've got the first class accomodations."

"Looks like it."

"Goodnight." The ladder creaked.

"Goodnight."

"Do you need anything right now?" Minsk asked.

"Oh." Minsk was talking to him. "No. But thanks."

"Sure."

Kinchloe listened to them climb the ladder and then heard the ladder hit the ceiling. Or the floor, really. He listened to the quiet for a moment, and smelled the now-comforting scent of heavy earth around him.

Johnson was here. He was found, he was okay, and he was leaving. Things moved fast around here. He might have to pick up the pace to keep up.


	6. Waiting

A/N: Somehow, this chapter ended up being way longer than the others. So enjoy! Also, Bruno and his feelings were borrowed from canon, but I'm not sure which episode it was.

* * *

"Johnson's gone?"

"Oui, and you are coming up in his place." LeBeau had come to fetch Kinchloe soon after the latter had briefly said goodbye to Johnson before morning roll call, and now he was helping Kinchloe out of the tunnel, explaining the new situation.

"Hogan was going to switch him with Olsen, but I wanted to switch him with you instead. I said, 'He has to come above ground. I cannot bring a soufflé down a ladder. And he needs some time with people, not alone in the tunnels.'"

"Did he listen to you?"

"No. We couldn't contact Olsen. But you are up here anyway. Here. Have some soufflé. Cheese."

The light conversation in the barracks continued without much of a hitch. A few of the men greeted him, he tried to reply in each of their directions, and LeBeau directed him into a seat on what seemed to be a bench. The wonderful scent had drifted toward him minutes ago, and his stomach was near growling. When LeBeau had given him a fork and he got the first bite into his mouth, he suddenly started chuckling.

"What? What's wrong?" LeBeau sounded disturbed.

"I just never imagined..."

"That combination of gruyère and parmesan? It was difficult to get the right cheeses, even with—"

"No. That I'd be eating gourmet French food, safe, warm, and comfortable, after surviving a crash in enemy territory. It's just—strange."

"It is strange," LeBeau affirmed, now sounding proud.

Minsk chuckled; a throaty, rough—Kinchloe guessed unusual—event. "It sure is. But there's good reason to do it."

Everyone murmured agreement. The door opened.

"How did it go, mon Colonel?"

Kinchloe relaxed. Not a German.

"Well, half of Nine wanted him out ASAP, and half are hoping the longer he stays, the worse his memory will become."

"Will they never learn that man doesn't forget a penny?" wondered Minsk aloud.

"So what did you do?" asked LeBeau.

"I struck a compromise. He'll get out in two more days."

"You compromised on his sentence?" LeBeau sounded upset.

"It wasn't really a compromise. That was as low as I could get Klink to go. How are you doing this morning, Sergeant?"

After waiting a moment to make sure no one else responded, Kinchloe said, "Better."

"Good to hear. So here's the situation. You can't exactly participate in roll call in the evening, so you're heading back down as soon as Olsen gets here. Hopefully he'll be back today. If not, we need to go out looking for him."

"What happened?"

"He was supposed to be back this morning but apparently got held up. By a girl, Gestapo, or traffic, I'm not sure. It's just unusual for him."

"Which is why he always gets to go outside," LeBeau told Kinchloe.

"Because LeBeau would find a girl and never come back," Minsk needled.

"I've been here longer!"

"Have fun arguing," Hogan interrupted. "I'm going to go finish Tom Sawyer."

He walked away. They didn't continue arguing. LeBeau had gone silent. Kinchloe later discovered Newkirk was his primary sparring partner.

After a few moments, Minsk asked, "Gin?"

"Sure."

The day continued. Though people engaged him in chatter, especially with how the war was going and what news there was from this city or that bomber group, they mostly found that Kinchloe was content to sit passively and listen. He spent much of the day listening to card games that were constantly rotating people in and out (though they sounded half-hearted) and thoroughly enjoying LeBeau's cooking and the sound of people around him, their voices a constant humming.

Hogan returned at some point, but only exchanged a few words now and then. For some reason, Kinchloe got the feeling this was very unusual for him. For them all, really. But he tried to enjoy himself, listening as someone reread a letter from home out loud, there was a brief discussion about the current camp football scores, and LeBeau whispered in his ear for advice on the card games every once in a while.

Nothing much happened until that evening. "Here's Schultz," someone called.

"Late for his appointment," he heard Hogan comment. What did that mean?

And then the door opened and there was a slight chaos involving LeBeau's voice, scratching on the floor _Claws? A dog?_ , a lot of shifting around, and a definite German accent. He froze. He had almost forgotten he wasn't part of this group; he wasn't supposed to be up here. He couldn't stand up in a line without drawing attention to himself. But after a moment of deciphering and separating all of the sounds, he realized no one was getting up.

"Why in here, Schultz? I'm cooking!"

"Well now is when I am out exercising the dogs and now is the only time you will get to see him. I will just take him back where he belongs if—"

"That's fine. Thanks, Schultz," Colonel Hogan cut him off. "Come on. Bring him over here."

There was more skittering and the guard saying, "Bruno, sit. Sit, hund." Kinchloe was surprised to feel a bump on his leg, leaving some moisture behind. "Bruno, you are not allowed to smell new people while you are training. Sit!" By now, Kinchloe was very tense. Surely the German would notice him. Would he be taken to the kommandant, his wildest hopes that had, incredibly, seemed so possible swiped from him as he was made prisoner? And how could the operation stay secret if he was found out? He stiffened at what the guard said next.

"Who is this man? I have not seen him before! Hogan, please! Why?"

"Oh yeah. Schultz, we were meaning to ask you," came the Colonel's unconcerned voice. "We found this stray outside, and he looked lost. So we brought him home... Can we keep him?"

"Keep him? No, Colonel Hogan, you can't. People are not pets and people and pets are not allowed."

"You mean I'm not even supposed to be here?" someone asked. A hubbub sprang up quickly and died down fast.

"Not ones we haven't captured! You cannot capture prisoners! That is our job! I will tell the kommandant."

"And have him taken away?" protested Hogan. "Back out there in the wilderness of enemy territory, or with the Gestapo?" _Thanks for that thought_ , thought Kinchloe. "Have a heart. He's blind, he hurt his arm." There was a pause and Hogan put on his most pitiful, yet simultaneously reasonable-sounding voice yet. "And he's hungry!"

The others emphatically repeated Hogan's point. This was the sergeant that liked food, wasn't it? He was waffling. "Well... No. I still must report you."

"Come on!"

"Schultzie!"

"That is my final answer."

"Fine. Fine," the Colonel gave in. Kinchloe didn't like the sound of that. "You'll just have to explain why Bruno is fraternizing with the prisoners."

There was a gasp. "You wouldn't, Hogan! I'm doing this for you and the Englander," he admonished, making it sound as if he didn't have authority over the prisoners.

"That's right. In return for those candy bars. Say, if you were kommandant, would you count that as one bribe or three?"

"But, Colonel Hogan, I _must_ report this," he whined.

"Alright, fine. Go ahead."

"I will."

"Oh, I believe you."

"I'm going to. Right now."

"Mm hm." Then, as Kinchloe heard the steps begin to move toward the door, the Colonel oh-so-casually laid down his ace. "I guess that leaves me to explain how we found our stray. "

The footsteps stopped and there was a long pause. "How _did_ you find him?"

Hogan immediately launched into a rapid, exuberant storytelling voice. "Well, when we snuck out the wire a few nights ago—"

"I don't want to hear it!" the guard shouted, alarmed. Bruno barked.

"Why not, Schultz? It's a great story. I'm sure Klink would love to hear it."

"No! I see nothing! Please, Hogan. I won't tell. But-but you can't keep him..." Kinchloe could imagine a look passing between them. "You won't keep him..." Another look. "Will you?" It had morphed into pleading. "Not that you are a bad person, or prisoner, but you must understand, we cannot _keep_ you."

It took Kinchloe several seconds to realize the guard was speaking to him, by which time Hogan was already assuring him, "Not forever, Schultz. He'll be gone soon."

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan."

LeBeau jumped back in and they got down to business with the dog, while Kinchloe thought of when he'd have to leave. It didn't feel like the _best_ thing that could happen to him.

"You can go now, Schultz," encouraged Minsk. "We'll work with Bruno."

"Yeah, get back to your rounds. We'll return him later."

Schultz verbally pouted a few more times before he left, but when he did, LeBeau got right down to business, talking to the dog and trying to explain that Newkirk was good. And soon, the whole barracks was involved. Apparently they needed the diversion. They tried introducing the dog to other Englishmen, a few borrowed from other barracks, and that all went smoothly, but when they let him sniff Newkirk's things, he would growl and bark and they had to quiet him quickly. They tried food, petting, reverse psychology, and begging. Bruno would have none of it. He was firm in his hatred of Newkirk and would growl every time. So proceeded the next half an hour of cavorting and bribing. Kinchloe could tell even the dog was getting frustrated.

"Is this even worth it? He's a German!" protested one of the men.

Bruno whined.

"Yeah, Colonel. I'm not sure he'll ever listen."

"Can we trade him out for another?" asked Kinchloe.

LeBeau must have shaken his head. "The guards love Bruno. We couldn't justify it."

"Could we trade out Newkirk?" asked someone else, in jest.

Hogan snorted. "With whom?"

They all fell silent, unable to think of a replacement for either dog or Cockney.

Kinchloe sighed. "The Führer would be proud of Br—" he began. He was cut off by a cascade of terrifying, vicious barking. There was a caterwaul as everyone tried to calm the dog without getting in the way of any teeth. In a moment, it quieted.

"Guess he doesn't like the man upstairs," Hogan mused.

"I thought he was German!"

"Bricklin?" Hogan called.

There was a hesitant "Yes?" reflected by the mood in the barracks. With Hogan's one word, everyone seemed apprehensive. "Go get the dartboard from the basement."

"What's the plan, Polkovnik?" Minsk asked.

"We're going to show Bruno Newkirk's replacement."

~~HH~~

Fifteen minutes later, they had success. Bricklin had retrieved, Minsk told him, a picture of Hitler. All it took was giving him the option of seeing Hitler or smelling Newkirk's blanket. Between Hogan and LeBeau it was made very clear to Bruno that if he didn't tolerate Newkirk, they could always replace him with someone worse. Bruno caught on quickly.

After another much quieter growl from Bruno replacing the barking resulting from der Führer's face, Hogan called a stop. "I think that's all we can do for now."

"Yeah. Without the Englishman himself."

"You can return him, LeBeau."

"Oui. Come on, Bruno. You've done well. I'll get you a special treat tomorrow, no?"

The door opened and closed.

"Fancy that. A loyal German that doesn't like his leader," someone mused.

"Loyal?"

There were chuckles around the barracks

"LeBeau's done a good job," Hogan agreed. "Hey, anyone got a cigarette? I was a little focused on my last visit to the kommandant's office."

"Sure."

"Thank you, Hoffman."

"You want one too, Kinchloe?"

"No thanks." He didn't smoke much unless he had nerves, and right now he was feeling just fine without one.

"Hey, are you from the Midwest?" Hoffman asked.

"Yeah. Detroit."

"Ever play euchre?"

"Plenty of times."

"Great! No one around here knows it. But—"

The door opened again and he heard a "Mon Colonel."

"Hold it." Hogan cut their ill-fated game of euchre short. "Five minutes to roll call. Olsen's not back. Change of plans. You're going into the tunnels."

"Don't you need the numbers?"

"Klink mentioned a special roll call. Sounds like he might be inspecting. And I'm afraid you'll be noticeable _even_ to the kommandant as not Olsen. Easier to explain an absence than a switch. Come on."

Kinchloe started lifting himself up from the table, and didn't get very far before he got help. In no time, he was down the ladder, finally beginning to get used to moving up and down without his leg or arm twinging too terribly.

They ushered him to his cot, and were upstairs in a moment. All was quiet for a few minutes. How would they explain an absence at roll call? Would a search be made? He didn't have long to worry. Just then, he heard a voice at some distance. "I'm back! Anyone home?"

Kinchloe made a not-so-wild guess. "Olsen?"

"Yeah." He was getting rapidly closer. "Is it... Sinchtoe?"

"Kinchloe. And hurry up. Roll call's now."

Olsen cursed as might a pilot. Especially a fighter pilot. In his defense, Kinchloe thought, it was appropriate. He heard cloth being thrown and shifted as Olsen presumably changed. Kinchloe thought he heard Olsen mumble something about a parade into his clothes. Had he heard that correctly? "It's now?" he asked. The faint sound of shuffling feet above them answered for Kinch. He cursed again. "Boy am I in trouble."

"Will they go looking for you?"

"No. I'll be present, just get the cooler or privileges revoked."

"You'll be present?"

"Oh, I'll just wait till they leave and then hop in my bunk, pretend I was asleep. Now shh."

They had to time it just right. Hopefully the others would stall. They both listened carefully to the sounds above them, waiting for everyone to exit the barracks.

Kinchloe suddenly said, "Now."

"Now?"

"I've been down here during roll call. Now."

"Okay." Olsen didn't waste any more time arguing. He was up the ladder faster than Kinchloe had heard anyone do so.

He didn't hear any more from them till morning.

~~HH~~

The next day was much like the previous. Apparently, Hogan had talked Olsen out of cooler time, but they had gotten reduced white bread rations for a week, and Olsen had been held up by a last minute change in the location of the League of German Girls' annual parade, and had a time of it keeping hidden. His being a familiar face, his papers usually got only a brief inspection, but with all of the officials in town, that may not pass. Regardless, all was as the day before in camp, though more, in a way, concentrated. Kinchloe couldn't pinpoint it until hours sitting in the barracks listening to the men and the rain. And he didn't recognize the agitation building in him until he got a moment with the radio that evening.

He found himself at another checkup with Wilson in the tunnels after roll call. The medic checked the mobility in his leg, secured his arm a bit more tightly, and rebandaged his forehead. He finished tying the cloth at the back of his head, saying, "Looks like this'll be good in another day. You're making progress."

Kinchloe waited a moment, hoping Wilson would say something more, but when he didn't, he had to ask. "Is there still hope for my sight coming back?"

There was a pause. "It's too soon to call. But you've got lodging here until you get it back or we find arrangements for you here in Germany."

"In Germany?"

"Don't worry about it yet."

"But—"

"And if you really want details, ask Hogan. Things are always changing around here anyway, and I don't make the decisions."

"Wilson," came a new voice. "You seen Mayhugh?"

"No. Why?"

"Radio's getting scratchy again. I thought he might be able to fix it."

"Last time he tried it only lasted a day, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but I can't sit there with static in my ears a minute longer. You don't think he's around?"

"Well, I haven't seen him in awhile. And I think you'd be hard-pressed to get his help after that stunt you pulled a few days ago."

"Oh. Yeah. You're right."

"Could I try?" Kinchloe interrupted.

"Huh?"

"I know I can't see, but... I'm pretty good with a radio. I could feel my way around and try to fix it."

Wilson was hesitant. "Well, I'm not sure—"

"THANK you," the other man said, with much less hesitation. "I'll just give you a little tour of our setup, and if you can do _anything_ to help it'd be much appreciated."

Kinchloe didn't realize a smile had crept onto his face. It might have been why Wilson relented so quickly. "Fine," he said. "We'll get you set up."

And now he found his mind wandering to the day that had passed as his fingers wandered over the comforting wires and screws, feeling his way around while making sure everything was tight. It was a welcome relief after the climate of the barracks all day. Nothing much had happened. The activities were all the same, which is to say, enough was happening. There were things to do, especially when Hogan had them all clean out the stove and sweep under the bunks, probably to combat the low morale. But today felt worse, and it took him several minutes and moving on to the oscillator to figure out why.

It must have started with LeBeau. He was... somber, though Kinchloe doubted if even LeBeau could tell him exactly why. And with his spirits low, it seemed everyone followed suit, adding some indescribable apprehension to the air. He had an aunt back home like that. Her cheeriness could make the whole house bright, especially during the holidays, but if she were ever feeling moody, everyone knew, and everyone else got more short-tempered than usual. He tested the base of the antenna. It made a slight rattle. Loose connection?

Of course, he wasn't sure how much of it was him. Usually, he enjoyed being quiet and tuning out the world and his thoughts. Whenever he got agitated, it was a comforting place to return to, like a soft, enveloping bed. But recently, unable to do anything but get his saviors stuck in solitary and be moved from barracks to tunnel unable to even see the world around him, that internal fog had become external, and it wasn't comforting him. It was swallowing him, cutting him off...

He sighed and put it out of his mind, focusing on finding the screwdriver left on the desk so he could tighten the antenna's junction. He was probably just picking up on and amplifying the mood to make up for his lack of sight. It'd be fine. It was just Newkirk. He wasn't sure why, but with him gone, they all seemed in a state of tension, like they were waiting for something to happen, for the other shoe to drop.

In the morning, it dropped.


	7. The Pace Picks Up

Breakfast was a wonderful gruel, spiced sparingly but perfectly. Or so LeBeau told him. He hadn't served just yet. Kinchloe listened to the sparse chatter and unenthusiastic, hollow bangs of coffeepot and tin cups, pot and spoon, and realized the morning had hardly lightened the mood. Kinchloe, along with everyone else, was getting prepared for another day of nothing happening. Of darkness and boredom and worry. At least he could look forward to breakfast.

But before he could accept the delicious-smelling dish, he heard someone say, "Hey, Hogan's got Newkirk out early!" Kinchloe had a moment to wonder how he knew that—maybe they were peeking out the door?—before LeBeau shoved a bowl and spoon into his hands, saying, "Sacré bleu! I forgot to hide his cards." There was general chaos in the barracks, and Kinchloe wondered how many things people had to hide from the Englishman, his possessions or theirs. Regardless, when he came in, there was general pleasantness, everyone welcoming him back amiably. At least for the first few seconds. Then they must have gotten a look at him. It went quiet, and LeBeau spoke first.

"Oh, Newkirk."

Kinchloe heard a bunk creak. "I got Kohler assigned to me cell, 'at's all."

"Newkirk, you must stop sending in your application for camp punching bag." The joke fell flat, partially due to LeBeau's tone.

"Let's get a look at you," Minsk puffed, seeming resigned.

"'m fine," the Englishman grumbled. Kinchloe heard people moving about. Then suddenly, he had the feeling someone was looking at him. "'ey look. It's me old mate. You know I finally thought of what to call you while I was sitting in that marvelous think tank, the cooler. I just didn't think I'd be able to use it. Kinch. Nice an' simple. I'm gonna call you Kinch."

"Better than 'old fellow.'"

"I thought you would say that. Ow! Watch it with the iodine." It sounded like everyone was getting back to their business, a few still welcoming Newkirk, and apparently a few paying off debts from a recent card game. Newkirk kept speaking with Kinchloe. "Say, why are you still stuck in camp, then? We got trouble with Gestapo patrols, Colonel?"

"Nope," said Hogan.

"My vision hasn't come back."

"Oh. I'm sorry, mate. Kinch."

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked LeBeau. "You look pale."

"Well you might if you'd been living off the poor excuse for bread they serve in the cooler."

"Get him some food," murmured the Colonel.

"One step ahead of you, mon Colonel."

"Kohler, you say?" Hogan now asked Newkirk.

"Think I'd misidentify, Colonel? 'Some reason, that kraut doesn't rub me right."

"He punches you right," mumbled LeBeau.

"That 'e does," growled Newkirk, surprising Kinchloe with the sudden change from, apparently, mock inconvenience to downright loathing.

"We've got to take care of him," ascertained Hogan. "He's the last one." And suddenly, Kinchloe noticed the whole atmosphere had changed. They were back in some sort of groove and the wheels were turning again.

"The last one?" Kinch asked, hoping to keep up with the conversation.

"Kohler is the only guard left that has been here just as long as Newkirk, and that was near the beginning," LeBeau told him.

"Let's suffice it to say we don' 'ave the best track record," Newkirk said. "Ow! Lay off!"

Kinch couldn't help but wonder if the trouser prank had happened to Kohler, but now was not the time to ask. He needed to do something.

"Newkirk?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I got you caught."

"Oh, don't worry, mate. Comes with the territory."

"I mean you didn't have to come after us, or do any of the dangerous things you're doing with a radio and all. You got captured. You should be sitting out the war."

"We're doing this to make sure not everyone captured _has_ to sit out the war," said Hogan.

"That's great, but... it just doesn't seem right you'd be doing something so dangerous."

"Hey. You got four o' your crew saved in exchange for me in the cooler for a few days. Fair trade, I think."

"And..." He hesitated. "Beaten up?"

"Oh, that's nothin'. I'm used to it. Ask LeBeau. It was comin' eventually."

"It generally does," LeBeau affirmed.

"Which doesn't mean we like it," said the Colonel.

"That's just a bruise," Newkirk mumbled unhappily to whoever his assigned nurse was. "You can quit now."

The ladder squeaked as it came up.

"Hey, Colonel," said Minsk.

"Yeah?"

"Underground just made contact. They ran into an issue with those guns."

"Really?"

"What happened?"

"Apparently they got the bombs in place, but couldn't get them set."

"So what? What's it got to do with us?" complained Newkirk.

"They want us to set them."

"What?"

"What are we? Maids to clean up after 'em?"

"Why can't they go back and set them?"

"They'll be recognized if they go again. It'll draw suspicion. And the timer only sets for half an hour. They don't think they'll be able to get out in time, especially if they're delayed on suspicion."

"Isn't there anyone else in the Underground that can do it?"

"They're either laying low or busy. We aren't busy."

"Yeah, right. I got tea to make, naps to take, me life to preserve."

Suddenly, a silence fell. After a moment, Kinch had to ask what was going on, assuming he couldn't see something. "What?" he asked quietly.

"...I have an idea," Hogan said.

"What is it?" Minsk asked with some trepidation.

"You're not going to like the plan, but we can take care of Kohler and those guns at the same time."

"If we can get rid of that _cochon_ , I'd be happy," said LeBeau.

"It's going to be difficult," Hogan said.

"Maybe not so happy," Newkirk agreed good-naturedly.

For the next fifteen minutes, they hashed out a plan. Newkirk complained loudly about having to go out and finish the Underground's job. Kinch didn't know him well enough to tell whether he really didn't want to go or wasn't feeling well enough and was trying to cover it. In any case, he managed to get out of it, being left with the radio, and Hogan, LeBeau, Minsk, and Burrows, another Englishman, were elected to view the guns and come back to tell their skeptical countrymen what German military superiority really meant.

"How will you convince the kommandant to let you do that?" asked Kinch.

"Oh, he can convince Klink," said LeBeau with full confidence.

"Really?"

"I've been working on the kommandant for awhile," said Hogan.

"But what about Kohler?" Minsk asked.

"We have to get Kohler to come with us. Now _that_ I don't have a plan for. I could try some reverse psychology on Klink, but no guarantee there."

They all thought for a moment. "What if he volunteered?" suggested Kinch, surprising himself. "Would that convince the kommandant?"

"It wouldn't hurt. Did you have an idea to get him to volunteer?"

"No. Just a thought."

No one else had an immediate suggestion. Not knowing the protocol of camps or the temperament of this guard, Kinch was at a loss for how to implement his idea. Then, he thought he felt the mood in the room get darker. Newkirk spoke up.

"I know 'ow," he murmured. "Suggest to 'im I'm goin'."

"But you're not going," argued LeBeau.

"I can pretend, do a little acting job, look terrified of him. You know 'e'd love to get me alone away from camp."

Minsk's rough voice murmured, "Nothing like kicking a man when he's down for those _nemtsy_."

"You sure you can do it?" asked Hogan.

"I can do just about anything once to ensure it won' 'appen again," replied Newkirk.

"Hmm. Alright," said Hogan. "If you can do it, sounds like a plan. I'm gonna go work on Klink. Newkirk, go run into Kohler and spread the rumor about this visit. Hopefully you can get him volunteering while I'm still in the kommandant's office."

"Yes, sir."

They split. That was exactly what happened. He heard the play by play of Newkirk's progress from a furious LeBeau watching at the window, whom Minsk had to restrain to keep from going outside and evening the odds when the guard, apparently, kicked Newkirk. Minsk managed to calm him down to furious ranting.

"As if that were necessary! As if that were fun! As if he needed put in his place! That boche is disgusting!" Kinch marveled at the fire in the Frenchman, while feeling the same thing about Newkirk, though with a little less energy and a little more guilt involved. "There he goes, off to volunteer! He's happy," LeBeau growled. Quickly, his voice changed. "Newkirk's coming."

Kinch could feel how antsy LeBeau was trying not to open the door and usher Newkirk in. It would look set-up if Kohler were still looking. Newkirk opened the door himself. There was a brief caterwaul. Everyone seemed to talk at once in this place. They found out Newkirk was successful and perfectly fine thank you very much, LeBeau was enraged, and Minsk was generally annoyed, all while trading insults for Kohler.

"Then why are you holding your stomach?" LeBeau countered.

"He kicked me where 'e kicked me yesterday, 'at's all."

"'That's all,' he says." LeBeau rolled his eyes. "I'll be glad if you never have to do that again."

" _I'll_ be glad if I never 'ave to do that again," Newkirk agreed with sincerity.

"You won't." Hogan's voice came in the door with him.

"You did it?" asked LeBeau.

"Did you doubt me?" He sounded amused. Not at all like an officer disgruntled by irritating, unfaithful inferiors.

"Fantastique! Now we will be rid of him once and for all, no?"

"Right. We're leaving in probably ten minutes. As soon as Klink calls ahead to the guards on the guns. We'll get there in about a half hour, set the bombs, and leave Kohler behind. You all ready to go?" There were various 'yes, sir's. "And you, Sergeant Kinchloe, will go back in the tunnels before Schultz comes in to pick us up."

There was finally a pause. Kinchloe took a breath. "You guys don't waste any time, huh?"

"Nope." He could hear the smile in the Colonel's voice.

"Absolutely right. Never get a break," Newkirk complained.


	8. Bomb

They got Kinch underground quickly and the next thing he heard of them, some twenty minutes later, was the tunnel opening and a disgruntled English voice saying "Lay off! I can get down a ladder!"

A few more muffled words and he heard a slightly uneven step approaching his cot and the radio. They stumbled to a stop, and there was no word of greeting.

"Okay?" Kinch asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Just a little light headed. Stood up too fast." The steps continued and he heard the quiet scrape of the stool against the dirt floor. There was a tired sigh. "Say, you're a radioman, aren't you? Have you checked out what we've got?"

"Yeah, actually. I was working on it last night. Someone said it was static-y."

"Well then. What do you think of it?"

"It's pretty great for having under a POW camp. It's got long and short distance, too. What all do you use it for?"

"Well, gotta contact London, get orders." He seemed to shift with a grunt. "And then there's the Underground."

"For sabotage?"

Newkirk's response got more slow and disinterested as it went. "Mostly just setting up escape routes. Change all the time, you know, depending on what the enemy has cooked up in any given area on any given day. Colonel 'ogan's awful excited to do more sabotage, though. Ambitious, that fellow, even if we don' 'ave the resources or the men."

They both fell silent, finding nothing more to say. It sounded like Newkirk was pretty tired too. Kinch's mind turned back to what he felt of the radio last night and he remembered something he had intended to bring up. "While you're here, I think there might be something wrong with the resistance coil. I could tell for sure if I could see."

"Something wrong? Want me to tell you what it looks like?"

"Yeah. It's the coil around the shaft to the far right."

"What? Now 'old on, let me get a candle. Gettin' dim in 'ere. Looks like we're running low on oil."

Kinch heard shuffling as if through boxes, and after a bit of fumbling, a fizz. Something accompanied it. "Wait. Do that again."

"Do what?"

"Light a match."

Kinch was paying close attention this time. When he heard the match strike, he saw a brief, warm glow. He smiled. "I think my sight's coming back," he announced.

"Really? That's wonderful, mate. Is it blurry?"

"You kidding? I can't even see the candle burning yet. But I saw the match flare."

"We'll just wait for it to come back, then. Meanwhile, what part were you interested in?"

As Kinchloe described it to Newkirk, he continued to smile of relief. His sight wasn't lost. It just took is sweet time about it. Now he could escape Germany and get back in the sky... and leave this miraculous camp and the people he had come to appreciate so much.

"Is there any sign of scratching on the wires?" he asked, once Newkirk had located the piece.

"Nope. Smooth."

"Alright, then. There's no problem."

"Good." He shifted on the stool again. "Woulda interrupted our direct line to the Iron Eagle."

"What?"

"We have a phone hooked up to the kommandant's office's line to arrange guards or Klink's schedule to suit us."

"How do you do that?"

"He's a coward. Got good reason to be, though. Only thing nastier than superiors is kraut superiors."

Newkirk said no more. It sounded like he had talked all he could for the moment. For some reason, that seemed strange to Kinch, as if he knew the Englishman would talk for hours if he could. He looked around again. "I can see the candle now. And the other lights."

"That's pretty good. Not too bright down 'ere."

He sounded even more weary trying to sound cheerful. "You want the cot?" Kinch offered. "I'll take radio."

There was no response. Kinch tried again.

"Doesn't sound like you got much chance to sleep in the cooler."

"Mmm... Fine," he mumbled reluctantly.

Kinch didn't get up yet, waiting for Newkirk to guide him to the radio. He didn't want to knock over anything fragile. He could faintly see the form of a person highlighted by the lamps, especially when he moved. He saw the Englishman get up and take a few steps. Then he stopped. And stayed there, breathing unsteadily.

"What's going on?"

There was a vague noise from the shadow, but he could see a swaying movement. More forcefully, he said, "Tell me what's going on."

"I... _may_ 'ave lied to LeBeau."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't... feel..."

He heard a thump and the shadow fell. Oh no.

"Newkirk?"

He very carefully paid attention to what he could see as he kneeled down next to the fallen man, trying to move slowly in his panic. He grunted as he jarred his shoulder. When he got on his knees, he felt around for a wrist to take a pulse. "Newkirk?" What could he have been hiding? He assumed when he said 'lying to LeBeau' it was about being fine.

His chest was rising and falling. Kinch found his wrist. He wasn't sure what was normal for the Englishman—maybe little food for such a long time would make him weak—but his pulse felt definitely thin. His guilt came back to hit him again. The cooler had not been good for him. He seemed fine when he had escorted Kinch to camp.

He couldn't do anything more here. Newkirk needed help. Kinch pushed himself up from the ground and made his way as quickly as he could to where he thought the ladder would be. He looked up when he reached a corner and saw a row of planks on the ceiling. He paused in indecision. What if there were Germans in the barracks?

If they could let him up, they would. He knocked on the support extending down into the tunnel. It made a satisfying noise, not too quiet or too loud. He waited as long as he dared, trying to hear anything above. He knocked once more and again received no response. He wasn't getting help now.

He made his way back toward the radio and tried to think what he could do. He was able to get the blanket from his cot and wad it up to prop Newkirk's legs up with it, hoping he would regain consciousness soon, worry tightening his throat.

There was an insistent sound. It took him a few moments to register it. There was a call coming in. Faintly, he could hear: "Goldilocks. Goldilocks do you read?"

Kinch wanted to help Newkirk further, but he didn't know how. And his work as a radioman had put in him an instinctive need to answer a radio call. He looked again at the man on the floor, anguishing over a decision.

He wasn't a medic. Newkirk was alive. And that call might really need answered.

He sat down at the stool and found the headset, then squinted to find the call button. "Goldilocks? Do you read?" There.

"I read you," he replied. He desperately wanted a clipboard but wouldn't be able to find one. He'd just have to remember whatever message this was.

"Oh good. Just calling to say you don't have to set the bomb anymore. One of our operators was able to go back and pretend she dropped an earring so she could set it and hurry out. All went smoothly."

Kinch's stomach dropped. "All went—you set it?"

"Yes. Half a dozen guns and their ammo blown sky high before the next bombers come through."

This was a problem. A problem he was not equipped for, and certainly not trained for. And it just _had_ to come when Newkirk was out. "When?"

"When?"

"When did she set the bomb? The others already left to go set it."

"Oh." The voice was now grave. "Let me see." There were a few moments of tense silence, just enough time for Kinch to wonder what he could possibly do with this information. "About 745 hours. It was set for half an hour."

He looked at his watch. He couldn't read the numbers. "What time is it?"

"800 hours. You have fifteen minutes. Is there anything we can do?"

"I don't know. I'll radio you if you can."

"Roger that. Over."

Kinchloe let go of the button, stunned. Hogan, LeBeau, Minsk, and Burrows were on their way to an explosion, and no one in this camp but him knew it. What could he do? He scanned the radio equipment, matching what he had felt and heard with the little he could see. He looked hopefully at Newkirk but could see no movement. He sighed anxiously, trying to urge his brain to think faster. He spotted the resistance coil. Newkirk said there was a direct line to the kommandant's office. His name was... Kinch sifted through his memory... Fink? No. Klink. Klink had sent them. With enough persuasion, maybe he could order them back in time.

How much time did they have? Now, eleven minutes. And would they be there by now? Kinch did some quick mental math using his discussion with Hogan about the distance these guns were at and the brief planning he had heard in the barracks before they left. They should be arriving now. It was only up to him to make a convincing case as fast as he could.

He worked it out as he figured out how to connect to the kommandant's office. The only thing worse than superiors were kraut superiors, right? Luckily, he didn't have time to worry. The phone rang but once and the receiver was picked up, a cheery, though apprehensive, voice saying: "Heil Hitler. Colonel Klink speaking."

He strummed up a big breath and a bit of courage and switched to German.


	9. Job Opening

A/N: Merry (late) Christmas! I put the ending all in one chapter. Hope everyone's had a good one!

* * *

"This is General Kinchmeyer," began Kinch. "I have been told you just let several of your prisoners go on a... day trip to visit some of our guns."

"Yes, sir." There was confusion in Klink's voice that Kinch plainly disregarded.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, sir, to prove to them the might of the Third Reich! You see, they were arguing among themselves and didn't believe—"

"That's not a good reason," he interrupted. Now he switched his voice from vaguely disappointed to angered. "That's the reasoning of a private! And let me guess. That's who you sent them with?"

"Oh, no, sir." He responded very quickly to the anger. "Sergeants Schultz and Kohler went with them. They are very good soldiers."

"But _not_ good enough to think to prevent enemies from seeing our defenses, it seems."

"Oh but they'd never get it out," Klink qualified. "Especially not out of my camp. You know, there has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13!"

Oh dear. He couldn't let Klink come up with a valid counter argument. And was that record true or was he trying to lie to a superior? Either way, Kinch felt his only chance was to give it all he had. He practically screamed, "Do you _dare_ question me?!"

"Oh! No! No, sir. I am a loyal German soldier!"

"Fine," he growled. "Prove to me you can take orders."

"Yes, sir. Oh, I can take orders—"

"Prove it! Tell them these exact words. Can you do that? Or are all of the Luftwaffe as bumbling as the Blue Baron?" He hoped that would work. The kommandant sounded shocked.

"The Blue— uh, no, sir. I mean, yes, sir! I can remember."

"Tell them General Kinchmeyer wants them out of there in exactly..." He consulted his internal clock. Yikes. "Four minutes. And leave the sergeant behind. I will go there myself and talk to him."

"Um..." Kinch could feel the indecision. Should he ask the angry general _which_ sergeant? And why would the sergeant be punished and not him? Kinch chose to answer the latter question.

"For some reason, your superiors want you to stay in command. But someone will get punished."

"But, sir, which—" There came the former question. He wanted to leave that one up to Hogan's interpretation.

"Tell them exactly that!"

He hung up as fast as he could. He sat frozen for a moment, then reviewed the conversation. Could it have worked? He hoped so. Movement made him turn his head. Newkirk groaned. He could finally see the body belonging to the voice that had brought him to camp. He wasn't surprised by his appearance, except for the sideburns and the deepness of the black eye he was sporting. Kinch made his way back over, leaving the headset on the table, as close to the edge as possible so he could hear if he was needed.

He looked Newkirk over again. Nothing was glaringly wrong. He probably just hadn't eaten and the stress of the cooler had caught up to him. He'd be up anytime. Kinch sat down next to him to wait.

He counted down in his mind the amount of time until the bomb and the entire AA station exploded. He took in the tunnel around him, which was becoming more clear and more impressive all the time. When he was down to a minute, though, his eyes became unfocused and he only counted each second in his head. 4...3...2...1...

Nothing. His eyes refocused. The tunnel was still dark. The radio sat peacefully on the table, calm, but ready. The flames of the lamps didn't even flicker. Nothing looked different. The only thing he could hear was Newkirk breathing softly. He didn't know. Whatever had happened, it was done.

In a few minutes, he settled into the wait. He didn't like it, but it was somehow okay. He was sitting below a POW camp, injured, with an unconscious man, waiting for a hastily planned sabotage party to come back from a mission they didn't even know had gone wrong with only a few short minutes to spare, and trusting the German above him to have related the message accurately enough that Hogan would know it was a message from him. He didn't even know how long he had to wait. Yet, despite all of this, Kinch felt better than he had for several days. Much more worried and frustrated, but, in some way, better. He realized the fog had lifted.

And then he remembered what Newkirk had said earlier and a thought occurred to him. He lifted Newkirk's jumper and undershirt with some difficulty, having only one hand available, to reveal his midsection. There was a blue and purple blotch that, upon further inspection, covered nearly half the area from the base of his ribs to his waist. It was much too large for safety. Or to be blown off. "Oh, Newkirk," he muttered. "You're one of those."

He had to get help. That was too much bleeding. He got up from the floor and headed for the ladder again, not sure where the rest of the tunnels would take him. Whoever was in the barracks earlier had to be gone by now.

Then commenced a flurry of activity. Before he could reach the ladder, it came down for him and a voice asked, "What's going on down there? We heard knocking during inspection."

"It's Newkirk. He passed out." Someone in American uniform came down the ladder, followed by several more. He couldn't put any voices to faces. As soon as they saw Newkirk, the first one down the ladder said, "Bricklin, go get Wilson." A scrawny, near middle-aged man took off down the tunnel. The others surrounded the corporal on the floor. "What happened?"

~~HH~~

Newkirk was soon protesting, waking up just after Wilson had made his diagnosis; internal bleeding, but it had come on slow enough that it was wiser to wait it out and let it heal itself as if a big bruise than to perform surgery. Newkirk would be out of action and in hot water for several more days. Meanwhile, they elected to wait to take him to the infirmary until the others came back. If someone was admitted to the infirmary, especially if Klink heard what it was, the kommandant would want to talk to the absent senior POW officer, and they all agreed it was best to let Hogan handle the situation, especially once they'd heard what Kinch had learned.

Everyone but Kinch, Newkirk, and Wilson had gone back up to the barracks to await the news of the AA team and their fate. Down in the tunnels, Newkirk refused to quit complaining.

"I refuse to quit complaining!"

"If you don't, I have iodine and I know where your cuts are."

"But you already cleaned 'em!"

Wilson's look said, You think I don't know that?

Newkirk got the message and pouted. "You sound like me mum."

"That's my job," Wilson huffed.

Kinch listened contentedly, still looking around, marveling at the enormity of the tunnels. They certainly had something going here. In what should be the deadest, most isolated part of war, they were involved. Heavily involved. And making a difference.

There was a sigh and Kinch brought himself back to the present. "You think they're okay?" Newkirk wondered aloud.

Wilson raised an eyebrow and glanced at Kinch. "Between Hogan and what I heard of what Kinchloe's done, I think so."

Newkirk grunted, at first, Kinch thought, in agreement, but when he saw the Englishman's eyes squeezed closed, he realized it was in pain. He looked at his watch. "They should be back in another five minutes." Even though Newkirk had said it came with the territory, Kinch still felt a little guilty. And the somber mood reminded him of something. Of LeBeau, just yesterday. Had he been so affected because he'd picked up on Newkirk's pain in the cooler? Kinch sincerely hoped Kohler wouldn't be coming back with them.

"While I'm down here," Wilson said. "Why don't we take a look at your forehead?" He came over to Newkirk's other side and worked on removing Kinch's bandage. "There's some good news. Looks like it's ready to come off. Needs some air now. Mind, you'll still have a scar."

"Best sort o' souvenir, righ'?" Newkirk said.

"Right," Kinchloe smiled.

"Course, with my luck, I don' even 'ave that, do I? Wilson couldn't be bothered to leave me one. Now what's the big idea, mate?"

"Shut your trap, Newkirk," he replied calmly. "It's still an option."

Newkirk winked at Kinch. He was still trying to cover up his pain, but Kinch had to hand it to him. He was having fun doing it.

The ladder opened and Kinch heard a familiar American voice. "That was too close a call. We could have been standing over it when it went off. I swear, the next pyromaniac that comes through here, no matter how creepy, I'm snapping him up." Three men made their way down into the tunnels, a suave American colonel who wore his uniform better than any officer Kinch had met, followed by a shockingly short Frenchman in a red sweater, and an older man with a pinched countenance in Russian uniform.

"You're back!" Wilson said with a smile.

"And it was a close thing too," said Minsk.

"How did you know it was going to blow up?" asked LeBeau. "Do we have traitors in the Underground?" He paused. "And why are you on the ground, Newkirk?" he added suspiciously.

Hogan looked at Kinch. "I think you have something to do with this, Sergeant. Am I right?"

Kinch nodded and explained while the others gathered around Newkirk. "The Underground radioed after you'd left and said they had managed to set it. They sent one of their operatives back."

LeBeau, sitting beside Newkirk and poking around, mumbled, "That doesn't explain why you're on the ground with your legs—" It had not taken him long to find the bruise. "Mon Dieu, Newkirk! You lying scoundrel! What do you call that? A bump?"

"He has internal bleeding. He passed out," explained Wilson. "I wanted to get him to the infirmary as soon as you came back, Colonel."

Hogan gained a serious expression. "By all means. Minsk and I can get him."

As Minsk threw up his hands and Hogan crouched by Newkirk's head, the Englishman swatted at his commander, starting to prop himself up on his elbows. "I'm weak, yes, but me bones ain't broken."

Hogan only looked at Wilson, who replied, watching Newkirk carefully, "Carrying him won't be any different. He only needs to go _slowly_." The last word caused Newkirk to stop in his efforts for a moment to roll his eyes before continuing again. He only actually slowed down when he had to stop once or twice to blink and shake his head. Eventually, he was up and heading for the ladder with plenty of unwanted help.

Kinch, coming to his feet and watching them leave, saw Hogan hang back, coming to stand beside him. The colonel looked surprised when Kinch looked up at him in question. "Can you see?"

He nodded. "Came back while I was on the radio."

"With Newkirk out cold?"

"Yes, sir."

He narrowed his eyes. "Well, congratulations on your sight. And you're going to have to tell me exactly what went down."

"Ow! You lot steppin' on me toes is _not_ 'elpin'!"

They looked over at Newkirk, who was trying to hit LeBeau with his hat, but had to be steadied when he lost his balance.

"The quick version," Hogan said with a smirk. "Klink'll want to see me about him."

While the others finally got Newkirk up the ladder, he told the colonel what had happened, and only then did he fully realize why he had felt so much better earlier. The fog was gone now, and when he'd left it behind, he didn't leave behind peace and comfort. He'd become useful. His presence mattered, to the men around him and to the war effort. And he liked it.

~~HH~~

One week and two lone escapees later, LeBeau had brought Kinch his lunch. They fell into easy conversation, as they had become apt to do.

"How do you feel, mon ami?"

"Good as ever. What's been going on up top?"

LeBeau snorted. "Olsen and Burrows pulled a prank on Hoffman that we are still cleaning up, we have run out of onions, and we have a mission tonight. Some krauts came into camp today bragging about some new battle movements. Hogan wants us to serve them at their party in town so we can get a look at the plans."

"Will Newkirk go?"

"No. Wilson's determined to keep him laying down as long as possible. But he is getting better, especially knowing Kohler isn't around."

"Who's going?"

"I am going to be in the kitchen, Hogan will be at the party, and Minsk, Bricklin, and maybe Olsen are serving. It depends on when you're leaving. Tonight might be the perfect chance. Has Wilson said if you're ready?"

"I think so. It's just my collarbone now."

LeBeau sighed and gave him a half smile. "I will be sad to see you go."

He returned the smile. "I'll miss it here. It certainly is interesting, isn't it?"

"Oui. It's nothing if not that."

The ladder opened and three people filed down. Kinch could now recognize everyone in Barracks 2, Schultz included. It was Hogan, Minsk, and Olsen. "Ready with those outfits LeBeau?" asked Hogan, coming up to them.

"Oh! I forgot," he said, and began to leave.

"One moment, LeBeau. Minsk will go with you." LeBeau stopped, a question in his eyes. Now Hogan addressed Kinch. "You heard about the mission tonight?"

Now Kinch was wondering too. Perhaps tonight was the night? "Yes, sir. Why?"

Hogan smiled, as if he were up to something. "Besides the fact that he's not here, we're banning Newkirk from radio, or at least he's not going to be our go-to. We need a replacement."

"I'd be happy to take it tonight," Kinch offered.

Hogan squinted. "We need something more permanent."

"Why don't you use LeBeau?"

"You kidding?" Olsen piped up. "He's worse than Newkirk."

LeBeau stepped in to defend himself. "The way they speak is terrible. I only made it sound better."

"And break every protocol created since the invention of radio communication," Minsk mumbled in an undertone.

LeBeau, who had definitely heard that, began arguing.

"The thing is," Hogan interrupted, "we could use a good radioman, as you can see, to stay behind and hold down the fort, fix equipment, and use proper protocol, especially as we, shall we say, expand our repertoire? And we need someone who can think on his feet if things don't go to plan." Hogan looked Kinch squarely in the eye. "Sergeant Kinchloe, I've got a job offer for you."

Kinch could feel it coming. It felt right.

~~HH~~

Newkirk, apparently finished with his poker game, had joined Carter and Kinch in the sun, catching the tail end of the story. "Did 'e tell you I was the one what called 'im?" he asked Carter, leaning against the wall beside Kinch.

"When he was crashing?"

"You did a bloody awful job," Kinch said.

"It worked, di'n'it?"

"I almost didn't respond."

Newkirk crossed his arms over his chest. "But you did. And it worked. End of story."

After a pause, Carter said, "I agree with Kinch." He ducked to avoid Newkirk's hat, just as the Colonel closed the barracks door behind him.

"Yeah, it's a good thing we got Kinch on radio," Hogan said, coming to stand beside them and stretching. "Got a lot less dangerous."

"Less dangerous? Hah," protested Newkirk.

"How'd you like the story?" Hogan asked Carter.

"Oh, it was good. You should tell them more often, Kinch. I mean, sometimes I wonder what happened before I got here. You guys already had a lot going. You had the tunnels, but not all of them, and the radio and the line to Klink's office—we don't have that anymore, just the switchboard—and of course, you were making clothes and papers for people to ship them out—"

"Yeah, yeah good story," interrupted Newkirk. "I'd rather Kinch tell 'em than you, 'specially since you weren't there."

"Yeah, and I didn't know that's how Kinch got his name," Carter continued, ignoring Newkirk.

"Couldn't call him old fellow anymore," said Newkirk.

Carter grinned mischievously. "I could call _you_ old fellow."

"No you couldn't! You're only four years younger than me."

"But the cutoff was three years!"

Newkirk crossed his arms and turned to their radioman. "Oh, Kinch. Is that what you told him?"

Kinch shrugged matter-of-fact-ly. "That's what you said."

"I said five!"

"Nope," he said, undaunted. "It was three."

"That's right, old man," giggled Carter.

Newkirk rounded back on Carter. "It was old _mate_ —"

"—old fellow— " Kinch corrected.

Newkirk spoke over him. "—and it was five years!"

A distant French voice from inside the barracks said, "Hah! I told you, Newkirk!"

Newkirk gave up and rolled his eyes with a huff of a sigh that dropped his shoulders.


End file.
